


Underneath The Stars

by luninosity



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Comfort, First Time, Hangover, Love Confessions, M/M, Morning After, Sexual Content, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2012-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-16 04:22:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after the night before; angst with a happy ending, sex in flashbacks, James being a virgin, worried Michael, martini-induced hangovers, reassurances, admissions of love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Underneath The Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Eve 6’s “Sunset Strip Bitch,” which isn’t really thematically appropriate, but came on right as I finished writing, so I went with it. Maybe possibly warning for not-really-dubious-consent, but Michael worrying a lot about alcohol and whether James really meant the yes. (He did. It's okay.)

Michael woke up, and instantly wished he hadn’t. Headache like the end of the world. Desert-dry thirst. Soreness in unusual places. Evidently even muscles could have hangovers. They twinged at him vengefully.

He didn’t try to peel his eyes open, yet, in case they leapt out of their sockets. Just lay there and let the awareness of his surroundings filter back in, cautiously. God. He was never drinking martinis again. Seriously. Not ever. At least not for a long time. Or the next couple of weeks.

There was another person in his bed. That took a minute to register, because he didn’t want to believe it. Not just in his bed, in fact. Beneath him. Or, technically, in one specific important sense, around him, because they had, judging from their respective positions, fallen asleep immediately post-sex. The person felt warm and solid and worryingly real, and was also not awake, and what the hell had he done last night? Or, for that matter, who?

He opened his eyes, very tentatively, in case the parade of drummers currently thumping away at his skull turned out to be more than just a metaphor.

Pale skin. Scattered freckles like carelessly tossed red-gold confetti. Happily disheveled hair and broad shoulders, and oh god, he knew those shoulders, and that hair, and he’d had fucking _fantasies_ about that skin, and fucking was the appropriate word, because he was still half-hard inside James, feeling all that heat, and he must’ve—

For a second, horrified, he lost the ability to breathe.

The memories flooded back in unsympathetic waves, and made his stomach lurch ominously. The two of them deciding, back at the hotel, that research needed to be done, to prepare for all the Erik-and-Charles alcohol-consumption scenes. Himself demonstrating the proper composition of a real martini. James watching his hands, amused, with a fascinated expression that’d made Michael want to show off for him again, to go on demonstrating and talking and doing more things, whatever would keep that look in those blue eyes for even a minute longer.

James licking spilled vodka from the back of one hand, tongue sliding between graceful fingers. Himself saying _that’s_ _fucking obscene, James, honestly, not fair_ , and James laughing, and then looking up, meeting his gaze and starting to smile, with those eyes like sinful oceans.

James on his knees, beside Michael’s mutely uncondemning hotel bed. Looking up at him again. From a new position, this time. And not speaking, because that glorious mouth was otherwise occupied. Himself, with one hand wrapped into all that hair, murmuring to those bottomless eyes, _you want this, don’t you, you want me to fuck you, to make you beg for me, to make you scream_ … And that voice, like crushed Scottish velvet and midnight-dark honey and liquor and need, answering _yes, please, yes_ , and whispering his name.

God. He’d fucked James. He’d gotten James drunk, and then they’d had sex. He could barely even form the thought. He’d had sex with James. Abruptly the hangover went from annoying to cataclysmic. Like the fucking collapse of the universe.

He should’ve known better, should’ve been the responsible one, should’ve realized how terrible an idea alcohol was, when he could barely keep himself from leaning down to kiss those enticingly mobile lips when one hundred percent sober, anyway. But instead he’d taken advantage of his best friend, of all that kindness and laughter and generosity, the generosity that made James smile at reporters’ humorless jokes and offer aid to stranded strangers in airports and, now, give himself to Michael, even that, because James, even when clearly incapable of making rational decisions on his own behalf, always, always wanted to make other people happy.

He did remember James moving, under him, the night before; could hear the echo of that spectacular voice gasping his name, astonished and beautiful. James wasn’t moving, beneath his weight, now.

He had to do…something. Had to fix things. He couldn’t stay there, crushing James into the bed, any longer.

He sat up so fast that the room spun. And the next second realized what a terrible idea that’d been, as James tensed all over, beneath him, around him, at the feeling of Michael pulling out of him.

“Oh, god—James, I’m sorry—don’t move, all right? I’m so fucking sorry—can you say something? Are you—” Okay? All right? Of course he wasn’t. How could he be?

James wasn’t looking at him, either. The blue eyes were buried in the closest pillow, and the heap of cotton-covered feathers hid everything except the line of one cheek and the explosion of vibrant hair.

“James?”

James might’ve tried to answer him, but the reply turned into another sound, very small and hastily muffled in the pillow. Michael’s petrified brain required a little too long to process that one; he’d never heard that noise from James before. He did recognize it, though.

He’d made James cry. He’d never known what it meant to want to die, until that exact moment. Now he knew.

James breathed in, a little more evenly this time, through the pillow. “Good morning…”

“Oh, fuck—don’t—you don’t have to—I’m so sorry. I…” He ran out of words. And James had kept talking, as if those too-long eyelashes weren’t still chillingly damp, when they lifted away from the pillowcase.

“I’m fine. You just…that surprised me, just now. When you moved. Not the easiest way to wake up. Or, well, I suppose it did wake me up, so in that sense maybe it is. I’d prefer a less painful alarm clock, I think, though. Are you all right? Because you look the way my head feels.”

“I—you—I’m sorry. Again.” He couldn’t say it enough. And they were only words.

“It’s fine. Really. You don’t have to worry—”

“Yes, I do! You—what the _hell_ , James, you’re in pain, of course I have to—don’t move!” That last part in response to suggestions of stirring limbs, beside him, and the corresponding all-over flinch.

“So…maybe not _entirely_ fine…”

“Stay put.” He forced uncooperative muscles into action. Collected the box of tissues. Thought about that for a minute, and then ran into the bathroom and got water, too, in case the scrape of dry tissue might be asking too much. James hadn’t attempted to move again, he noticed, and that might be the most frightening fact out of everything, so far.

“I’m going to clean us up, a little, okay? And then we can shower?” He could’ve just carried James into the shower, but he had to know how bad it was. He’d not remembered to use a condom, obviously—that was okay, he’d reassured himself on that front not too long ago and he hadn’t been sleeping with anyone lately, because he’d been seeing those blue eyes every day and he hadn’t wanted anyone else, because no one else, ever, could be James—but he had at least grabbed the lube, he must have, he could see it tipped over next to the bed. Thank god.

James nodded and didn’t protest, even when Michael touched him, gently easing his legs apart. Just dug fingers, eloquently, into the stoically accepting pillow.

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m not—I don’t want to hurt you.” More.

“You’re not.” That, Michael knew, was a lie; he witnessed each new wince, when he dabbed wet tissue against swollen and sensitive flesh. There were bruises, too, shadows that sat accusingly over the curves of those hips and the pale gold-dusted thighs. He shook his head, mentally, and was just thankful that James couldn’t see his expression. 

He’d already known that he’d been too rough, earlier, with that first instinctive reaction; he could see James biting his lower lip, visibly holding back more terrifying sounds. Of course, he should’ve never let them fall asleep, still intertwined, in the first place, all that sticky skin drying slowly and then shocked by his abrupt withdrawal. The water helped a little, clearing some of those reminders away.

He paused to find more tissue, and then stopped, staring at the one in his hand.

Pinkness. Pink spots, on the tissue. Pink because they’d been diluted by lube and come and slickness. Winking up at him innocuously.

He thought, for a single airless second, that he might pass out. No. _No_. He had to take care of James. Had to.

“James? You—you’re—I—oh, fuck, you’re—”

“I’m what?” James tried to look, and of course couldn’t see anything from his current position. “Michael? Are you all right? Talk to me?”

 The walls loomed in, greyly, around him. Somehow he managed to say, “You’re bleeding…”

“I am? I mean, it doesn’t hurt _that_ much. Some, but not much.”

“Not—not a lot. But you—I hurt you, I—”

“Can I see?”

“…what?”

James reached out to brush fingers against his limp hand, turning it so that blue eyes could examine the evidence. Michael tried not to panic, when bare skin encountered his.

“Oh. That’s not that bad.”

_“How is this not that bad?!”_

“Because it isn’t?” James tossed the incriminating tissue in the direction of the nearest trash can; it hit the edge, wobbled briefly, then decided to fall in. “I’ve been hurt worse than this during filming, you know. And so have you. And you’re taking care of me, right?”

“Of course!”

“Well, then.”

“James—you know I didn’t—I’m so sorry, I swear, I didn’t mean to—I would never—not ever—I didn’t want this. Not like—I’ll fucking give up alcohol, if you want. Or never touch you again. Or drop out of the film. Anything.”

“You would never…” James breathed in, careful and precise, as if something did hurt, now, and didn’t quite meet his gaze. “All right. I’m sorry, too, then. And you don’t have to give up alcohol or drop out of the film or not touch me. And it isn’t your fault. Or if it is, it’s my fault too. We can—it’ll be fine.”

“How?”

“We’re still—friends, right?”

He wanted to believe that. He wanted to believe everything James was saying, in that so-familiar voice, still sleep-fuzzy and warm as the purr of wind through long hillside grass. Of course, he wanted more than he should, even now; he wanted James to want _him_ , to smile at him one more time. But that would never happen, not after this, so if James somehow, unbelievably, at least didn’t hate him, that was more than he deserved.

“Right…”

“So we can just…be friends. Um. Can I ask you a question, though?”

“Of course you can.” Of course to whatever James wanted. He just hoped he had an answer. He ached everywhere, body and soul.

“Of course.” James did smile, then, a quick upward flick of those lips that hinted at reassurance, perhaps, or some measure of returning normality. “So…just to make sure, then…this…with the tissue…that doesn’t happen every time, right?”

“What—No!” Michael felt his heart actually stutter at that question, offered a little hesitantly and clearly sincere. “You—wait, you mean you don’t—you’ve never—”

“I did try to tell you. Well, sort of. I could’ve tried harder. Um. Sorry. About that, I mean. I probably should’ve told you earlier.”

He couldn’t talk. Just stared at James, who looked down at the pillow as if it might be able to find better words.

Those ferocious memories crept back up and sunk claws into his skull, uninvited. His own voice: _you’re incredible, James, so fucking tight, like you’ve never done this before…_ James laughing, briefly, bright and intoxicating as the glint of light off the rim of an abandoned martini glass, and then not laughing anymore, just licking those lips as if preparing to answer, but Michael had kissed him instead, enthralled by the shine of wetness left behind on pink skin, and James had never finished that comment after all.

“Oh…oh, no…you were—I was—that was your first—you were a virgin!”

“I’m not a virgin!” James now sounded somewhere between laughter, again, and the lurking tears. “I have had sex before! Many times, in fact! I’m very accomplished at sex!”

“With men?”

Silence, like snowfall or boarded-up windows or pain; that, and the averted eyes, told him everything he didn’t want to know.

“Oh, god.” He couldn’t even think. He’d had sex with James. He’d _hurt_ James. “You—are you—what can I do? To help. Anything at all. Just tell me what you need. Please.” Assuming James wanted help. Assuming James wanted his help. Assuming he could do anything to help at all.

“You don’t need to do anything. I’m all right.” James sat up, winced, ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up in every conceivable direction; Michael felt his heart break, one simple snap, leaving only sharp-edged pieces. Of course James would tell him that.

“ _Please_ don’t move.” He tried to meet those endless blue eyes with his own, with all the desperation he didn’t know how to express. All the fear. All the emotions he didn’t have names for. And something must’ve worked, miraculously, because James sighed, nodded, and settled back down, naked and fragile in the messy nest of hotel-neutral sheets and pillows.

James would hate being called fragile. And he wasn’t, not really. And that made everything worse: Michael had been the one who’d made him bleed.

“Listen…if it helps, you were very concerned about me enjoying myself.”

“I was?”

“Mm-hmm. You kept asking if I liked…all the different things. That you were doing. And I did keep saying yes. And you, um. You told me you wanted to make me come. For you. And you did. With, um, your hand…”

He did vaguely recall that, now. The sensations, the images, plodded back slowly, grumbling wearily as they found space in his overstuffed skull. He’d needed to know that James was enjoying himself, had needed to feel James wanting him, shivering for him, falling apart for him.

He looked at his fingers. They tingled, having thoughtfully memorized the slide of James’s cock through them, throbbing and hard and slick with arousal. And he heard himself demanding _now, I want to see you, all mine, come for me,_ and felt the incandescent pulses of heat spilling over his hand, James wide-eyed and helplessly trembling with release, under his touch.

Christ. Maybe he should just throw himself off the hotel balcony now.

“It was sweet, I thought. Kind of romantic. Considerate. Though, mind you, I wasn’t exactly sober at the time, either.”

No. It wasn’t romantic. Or considerate. Or, oh god, sweet. It was possessive and primal and impulsive, every damn treacherous impulse that had been wanting to claim James as his, had been wanting _James_ , since the day they’d met, since the first time James had ever smiled at him and lit up the world.

He’d been excited about working on _X-Men_ for a lot of reasons, but quite a few of them had had to do with the realization, the day he’d heard that James would be involved, that he might get to see that smile again. And he had. Every day.

And now he’d probably never see that smile again. James had been a _virgin_. Fucking hell. The room wobbled with the weight of it.

Eyes like concerned sapphires fixed themselves on his face. “Are you all right? You look—”

“No,” Michael forced out, with some effort, and barely made it to the tiny bathroom.

He sat there next to the poor abused toilet, after throwing up everything he’d ever consumed in his entire life, and shut his eyes, and wondered if he could figure out how to kill himself with spare towels and the showerhead. Probably not, though. He’d more than likely just end up breaking the shower, too. Besides, he didn’t really have the energy to move.

If he were a supervillain, he could just use the towel rack to impale himself. He waved a hand at it, just in case. It steadfastly ignored him.

The tile, on the bathroom floor, was both decidedly cold and extremely, uncomfortably, hard. He didn’t mind that. He deserved the discomfort. And worse.

He thought about supervillains again. Maybe he was secretly one anyway, despite the disobedient towel rack. Everything he’d done to James seemed very much like something a supervillain would enjoy.

James was still in his bed. And still in pain. Someone had to take care of James. And they were still friends, because James had said they were still friends, that everything could still be okay. He could be a friend, not a good one because it was too late for that, but he could at least try to be there, to do whatever he might be able to do.

He should probably brush his teeth first. James didn’t need any extra horrors this morning.

He stared at himself in the mirror, toothbrush and all. He really did look awful. James didn’t look awful, of course, because James, even with a hangover, would never not be attractive. James could be attractive even when hurting enough to make glittering tears turn up, reflected like stars in lakewater eyes.

If anyone else had hurt James, had caused those tears, Michael would’ve been currently attempting to rip said person into innumerable pieces. He knew that like he knew his own heartbeat, or his name, or the number of freckles on the ring finger of James’s right hand.

There were three freckles. Three almost unnoticeable flecks of gold, making a crooked line just below that first flexible juncture of bone. Sometimes they caught the sunlight, when James was making happily demonstrative gestures in the air.

He would’ve done anything to make James smile again, after. James smiling just felt…right. The sky was blue, and the grass was green, and James should be smiling, always, because that was the way the world _was_.

And he, Michael, was hopelessly in love with James. Had been for years. Maybe even since that very first smile, the day they’d met.

They’d become friends instantly, because James was friends with everyone, often within seconds of first encountering them. And Michael, who _didn’t_ make friends immediately with everyone he’d ever met, had been captivated on the spot by brilliant blue eyes and boundless enthusiasm. And still was.

He’d never named it, hadn’t even thought about it, really. Just part of his life. Like the unconscious act of breathing, or like a steady pulse, the reminder of blood in his veins. He’d gone on to date people who weren’t James and to move into and out of a series of hideous apartments and to make other films, and so had James, and they’d both become more or less successful, and he’d paused to grin every time he’d caught a mention of that name or a flash of a blue-eyed photo or an update on a new project, and the world had kept spinning, and he’d always been in love with James.

Like breathing.

And he couldn’t fix what had happened last night, because he’d been the one making it happen.

Funny. Despair really was physical. He could feel it everywhere. Like the hangover, except more painfully permanent, tattooed into his bones.

He set down the toothbrush, which glared at him absurdly from the corner of the sink, and shut his eyes.

And then heard a knock at the door. “How’re you doing? Can I come in?”

No. And also no, because he couldn’t face too-blue eyes at this moment. He couldn’t even face himself. “I’m fine!”

In response, of course, the door opened, and James appeared behind him in the mirror, radiating worry. He’d gotten dressed, even. The clothing covered up and hid away all the naked skin, accusingly. And Michael’s brain suddenly registered the fact that James _was_ up, and wearing clothing, and moving around, and he twisted away from the sink and almost fell over. “You—why are you up, you shouldn’t be—you got dressed!”

“I was cold.” James wandered, barefoot, across the chilly bathroom tile, and leaned against the wall next to him. “And I thought—Never mind. Are _you_ all right? You look—”

“I’m…fine.” He desperately needed some sort of more sophisticated vocabulary. His brain just wasn’t equipped to deal with this situation. Neither was the rest of him. He blinked. Finally processed something else. “Are you…wearing my shirt?”

James nearly smiled, a small expressive quirk of lips. “I couldn’t find mine. Do you mind?”

“No. Of course not. No. But you—why are you dressed at all? Please.”

James eyed him quizzically. The t-shirt, one of his oldest, clung to every curve and line; the faded black highlighted vivid hair, and made it glow. This particular shirt was slightly too big on Michael himself, these days, which made it warm and comfortable and was the main reason he’d kept it. This also meant that it was only slightly too tight for broad shoulders, and a little too long because James was shorter than he was, and Michael couldn’t keep himself from staring, entranced, even though he knew he shouldn’t.

“I’m dressed because you said—I would’ve just left, but you’ve been in here for almost an hour and I couldn’t go without—”

“Wait. You were going to—go? To leave?”

“I thought you’d want that!”

“What? Why would you think—I don’t want you to leave! I don’t even want you to be out of bed! I—please don’t leave.”

The blue eyes now looked puzzled by his response. “You said you wouldn’t—I was just trying to make this easier. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Not to me.” He’d said what? Michael tried to review all his sentences, through the vicious hangover and the guilt and the omnipresent concern. It was difficult.

James didn’t say anything else, so he shut his eyes, and pushed the heels of both hands against them, trying to shove back the throbbing headache. “I don’t want you to leave. And I’m very confused. Why do you think that I don’t want you to stay? Because I do. Want you to stay.”

“You _do_?”

Michael’s eyes were still closed, but the astonishment in that voice was palpable, and he had to open them, shocked. James had obviously been watching him, but dropped his gaze to the unresponsive bathroom floor, instead.

“Of course I do. If I said—what _did_ I say, to you?” He’d thought that he couldn’t’ve hurt James any more; hadn’t he done enough, for one morning? But those eyes weren’t looking at him, and James, despite all his impressive ability to take on and understand all his characters, never had been good at hiding his own emotions, always offered so openly to share with the world.

Just one more reason Michael loved him, of course. As if he’d needed more.

“You said never. Um. That you would never—want that. With me. If you were sober. And I—” James stopped, but too late to hide the cracks in those final few words.

“I—you thought I—no! That’s not—I didn’t mean that!”

“You didn’t?”

“No!”

“Then…what did you—”

“I love you!”

He’d seen James rendered utterly speechless less than a handful of times, previously. Evidently he’d just discovered a new way to accomplish that result. Good for him.

James opened his mouth. Closed it again. Blinked.

One of them had to say something. Had to fill up all the silence. “I just meant that I wouldn’t—I never want to hurt you, not ever, I would take it all back if I could—not _everything_ , I don’t mean I don’t want you, I do, please don’t look like that—” James blinked again. Took a step closer to him, bare feet soundless on the tile.

“I do want you. I wanted—I’ve been in love with you forever, I think, I love your freckles and the way you smile and the way you make everyone around you happier, just by walking into a room, and I hurt you, and I can’t—I mean, I’ve been in here trying to think of ways to kill myself with the towel rack. For hurting you. You let me—and that was your first—and I should have made it perfect, for you, it should’ve been perfect, because you are. Perfect. And I’m so sorry. And I love you. And can you say something? Because you’re being very quiet and you not talking scares the hell out of me.”

“The…towel rack? Seriously?”

“Um. Half-seriously. I would’ve come back—I wasn’t going to leave you alone. I would have tried to help. And also I love you. And I do mean that.”

James contemplated that statement for a minute, eyes drifting over to glance at the quiescent toothbrush, just for somewhere to land. And then back up, finding Michael’s, and not looking away. “You know, I think you think I was a lot more drunk than I actually was.”

“You—”

“You could’ve just asked me, instead of coming up with horrifying plans for the bathroom fixtures. And I would have told you. I did know what was happening. You didn’t do anything I didn’t want. Honestly. I swear.”

“You,” Michael said one more time, because that was the only word left in his embattled brain, and then just held his breath, because James was starting to smile again, slowly. Not just a half-smile, this time. A real one. And the icy bathroom tiles suddenly felt less unfriendly, against his toes.

“I’m glad you weren’t being serious about the towel rack, too. Because that would be absolutely an idiotic thing to do. And I would like to think that I’m not in love with an _absolute_ idiot.”

“You—what?” That had to be the hangover. His ears couldn’t be reporting the truth. Disloyal ears.

“I love you,” James repeated patiently. “I love listening to you talk—you always sound impressively articulate, by the way, in interviews, when you talk about filming, and yes, I pay attention to all your interviews—and I love how passionate you get about every project, about everything you care about, even down to the martinis, which are fantastic, incidentally, and you worry about me like I’m one of the things you care about—”

“You are!”

“—and nobody’s ever really done that, for me, except you, and you look at me like you think I’m amazing, which I’m not—”

“You _are_ ,” Michael said again. It was true. And if James didn’t see that, he’d just have to say it more. Every day. For, just possibly, the rest of their lives.

“—which I am _not_. But I feel like I might be, maybe, around you. And you make me want to smile every time I see you.”

“I love you.”

“And also you’re sort of unfairly attractive. And I very much did—and do—want to have sex with you.”

“You did?”

“Didn’t I just say that?” The smile had made its way up into those blue eyes now, lighting up and untangling shadowy sapphire labyrinths. And James was standing right in front of him, still wearing his shirt, and barefoot, and happy.

Michael picked up that tempting right hand, in his. Traced fingers across tantalizing freckles. And James didn’t move away.

“You _did_ want to.”

“Yes.”

“And you did—it was good? At least all right?”

“It was fantastic. Except for those few minutes, this morning. I am fine, now. Maybe a tiny bit sore. But you were worth it.”

“I’m still sorry about that. I panicked.”

“I know. You didn’t have to. What are you doing?”

“You have freckles.” He’d been running his fingers over the almost-invisible three that decorated that ring finger, trying to find them by touch, in their cheerfully uneven golden line. They felt like a welcome, to his skin.

“I do? I mean, I know I do, but…there?”

“You never noticed?”

“Um…I’ve never studied my own hand. You mean these? I can hardly see them.”

“I like your freckles.”

“I love you.”

“And I love you. Can you get undressed again and let me take care of you now?”

“Is that a euphemism for—”

“No!”

“Oh. Why not?”

“Because your _second_ time is going to be perfect. As perfect as I can make it. Which means you have to wait, because I’m not doing _anything_ while you’re in pain.”

“What if I told you I didn’t bother to put on any underwear?”

“ _James_ ,” Michael said, and started laughing, exhausted, hungover, giddily content. And James started laughing, too, and let Michael hold him, while the white walls of the bathroom joined in and reflected back all the wonder and surprise and expectant delight.

He eased James out of the completely unnecessary clothing, refusing to be anything less than gentle even when James rolled his eyes at the caution, and then got both of them into the shower, as quickly as he could, in case the latest turn of events turned out to be some sort of martini-induced delirium. And then ended up just putting his arms around James, again, under the clouds of falling water and steam. Still there. Really his. Amazing.

“I think this helps. The shower, I mean. With me being sore.”

“Good.”

“You kissing me would also help.”

“Like this?”

“Mmm. Very much like that. I don’t know if that was enough, though, maybe you should try again…”

“James?”

“Yes?”

“You said…you did like certain things. That I did. With my hands.”

“Yes?”

“Did you mean this thing?”

“Oh yes. Are we having sex again now?”

“Still no. But…” He paused, trying to recall his own phrasing, from the night before. James had seemed to enjoy that phrasing. And he wanted James to enjoy himself. This time. And always. “I do want to see you come for me. Like this. Again.”

And James shivered, at that tone, and whispered his name, and then, very clearly, told him, “Yes.”


End file.
